


Disciple

by ExpatGirl



Series: Things That Will Probably Not Happen in Season 12 [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Feelings, M/M, POV Dean, Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8071723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExpatGirl/pseuds/ExpatGirl
Summary: He’s going to be good. He’s going to strip the violence from himself like some monstrous bloody hide whenever he walks in here. He knows he’ll have to put it on again, but god he’s so tired of wearing it, and here he doesn’t have to. Hell, he can’t, not with Cas, not with this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place immediately before "Star of the Sea". 
> 
> I wasn't going to post this, but it's apparently the day that Castiel first appeared on _Supernatural_ so I felt I should. Any typos, let me know.

It’s so new, this thing between them, that Dean’s half-afraid it doesn’t exist at all; that he fried up his circuits when he made an H-Bomb of himself, and he’s actually reading everything wrong. That the pressure of the wall along his back and the pressure of Cas’ body along his front are just another iteration of the fight that’s always in his mind, always threatening to crush him.

Then again, it’s not new. Their connection is bound up in defiance. If Dean believed in inevitability, which he did when it came to bad timing and bad luck, he’d almost say it was inevitable. Inevitable, because everything in the whole goddamn world kept trying to keep them apart, and that just made them all the more determined to be near each other.

Well, made Dean all the more determined.

Cas is...hesitant. No, not hesitant. Dean grips him, and he goes, right to the wall, right against Dean. Dean pushes him onto the bed, and he falls, all the way back. Dean unbuttons his shirt, undoes his belt, and he unclothes himself. Easy. Like it’s nothing.

He’s good about it, too, doesn’t say anything about...what it is, or what they do. Like he knows that Dean needs this but he needs it just for himself--just for _them_. He has so few _good_ secrets in his life, so few private joys. He covets them. He’s not ashamed. He just doesn’t want to share. Most of his life belongs to other people. Except this.

Everything’s so incredibly skewed--Mary walking these halls, and Sam gone, like Dean’s landed in a photo negative of his life. He’s used to missing her. The pain’s become a cornerstone of his personality, as unremarkable as it is unmovable. He’s built himself around an absence, and he’s not sure what to do now.

But there’s Cas. Dean used to think of him as an absence, too. Or, a series of absences, small and sharp like shrapnel.

Now, Dean realizes, he’s more like a star, returning and returning. He doesn’t know why it took him so long. He doesn’t know why it took...Dean shivers, feeling the echo of breaking bones in his knuckles. He clenches and unclenches his fist, and then brings his hand up to Cas’ face, smoothing his thumb along the line of his cheekbone again and again as he kisses him. He’s going to be good. He’s going to strip the violence from himself like some monstrous bloody hide whenever he walks in here. He knows he’ll have to put it on again, but _god_ he’s so tired of wearing it, and here he doesn’t have to. Hell, he _can’t,_ not with Cas, not with this.

Outside of this room, Sam takes up most of his waking moments, and his mom the remainder. They take up most of his sleeping moments, too, which is another kind of torment altogether. What’s worse is the nightmares have become almost _mundane._ Cas obliterates them, of course, in one way or another, every night. But that doesn’t change the fact that, outside this room, Dean belongs to others.

But in here, like this,  it’s just him and Cas and ten square feet of reprieve. His world’s dangerously off-kilter but he’s got _one thing,_  and so he grabs on.

****  
His mom--calling her that is another private joy, since he doesn’t dare use the word to her face yet--is like a strange bird, and he does his best not to startle her. She moves through the world like she’s not sure how to be part of it, which, of course, she isn’t. The smallest things draw her up short. She stared at the microwave for half an hour the other day, letting the frozen burrito in her hand thaw. In the end he’d walked her through it. _She taught you how to brush your teeth,_ he thinks, _the least you can do is show her how to use a microwave._ Eventually she’ll need a phone. He’s going to have to write a detailed tutorial for that. Or maybe Cas can write it. He learned the cell phone from first principles, and now he uses _apps._

He doesn't know how much she remembers of the events leading up to her death and he’s relieved she doesn’t ask. She doesn’t ask about dad, either, not after Dean said: “I’m sorry, he’s...he’s dead. But Sam and me, we got the evil bastard that did him in.” He was a little afraid she’d go off the rails at that. Soulmates. They have a hard time letting go, to put it mildly. But she just got real quiet and shut herself in her room, and came out again that night and never mentioned it again. Maybe being dead erased the brand. Cas would know.

So, no sudden movements.

*****

Cas can take Dean’s brashness, his loudness, his anger, can give it right back to him. Dean knows this. It’s the soft and slow that sends him scrambling for a foothold, something hard to brace against.

“Dean, wouldn’t it…” Dean doesn’t let him finish the question, straightening up and kissing him. He’s got Cas against the wall this time. It’s been forty minutes. He’s spent twenty minutes of it getting Cas’ shirt open, and the other twenty trying to memorize Enochian glyphs with his tongue. He can hear the way Cas’ heart pounds, see the increasingly-rapid rise and fall of his breathing. “Wouldn’t it be better if, ah, I took these off and we got...to the main event?” Dean kind of regrets using that phrase, because now Cas uses it, and while _intercourse_ had the musty smell of old textbooks about it, it was also...kind of charming.

“What’s your hurry?”

Cas has never been patient, and that applies here, too. And Dean’s not ungrateful. He’s not. He was just hoping now that finally, _finally_ they’d managed to get ahold of each other, they’d spend a little time reveling in it. (Somewhere, seventeen year old him is mocking him, but seventeen year old him was a snot-nosed punk, so he can shut the hell up.)  

He was also kinda hoping that Cas would show some of that legendary initiative of his, a little pull to go with all the pushing Dean’s doing. But Cas always keeps his hands on things that aren’t Dean. The bed, the desk. The wall, in this case.

“It’s late. You’re tired,” Cas says.“We need to...that lead in Independence. You need sleep,” he finishes, and Dean feels a small flare of triumph that he’s struggling to find words.

“I’ve made longer drives on less sleep,” Dean says, pushing his thigh between Cas’ legs. He begins slowly increasing the pressure. “And this is an excellent use of our time.”

“Wouldn’t you rather…”

“Nope,” Dean says, smirking a little, and finally allowing himself to take Cas’ shirt all the way off. Cas lets him, like he always does. “Besides, as far as I’m concerned, this…” He presses Cas against the wall with another kiss, careful, so the brick won’t abrade his back, “ _i_ _s_ the main event.” But something makes him stop.

Okay, yeah, Cas isn’t a patient guy. But what Dean initially took for eagerness--which he’s been more than happy to indulge--actually seems to have a hint of alarm to it, now that he’s seen it up close a few times. Anything other than the stark act itself seems to knock Cas off balance. Usually by forty minutes in, Dean’s asleep, naked and dreamless, with sweat drying on his skin. Or he’s boneless, floating, watching Cas step back into himself, one button at a time, and wishing for Cas’ face in the crook of his neck, his palm curling around Dean’s hip, with no destination in mind.

Dean’s spent a lot of time imagining how this might go. (Hunts are mostly waiting in cold and nasty places for things to happen; you’ve got to do _something_ or the boredom will kill you before your prey does). Over the years, they’ve come together a hundred thousand different ways. At a motel, that’s a popular one. The car, another winner. Abandoned churches are good, _occupied_ churches are better. Liquor store, not so good. The lighting’s all wrong and there’s a vaguely disturbing air of Nicolas Cage about the whole thing. The woods, well, that’s complicated. He likes the rough, sap-smelling purity of it, but the _dirt,_ god. But no matter the setting or the increasingly-flimsy scenarios, or who does what to whom, or whether Dean’s shy and pliant, or Cas is, or neither of them, it’s always an equal meeting. There’s always a before and after to go with the during. Sometimes those parts take up the lion’s share of his fantasies. (Seventeen year old Dean has, at this point, admitted _Yeah, same_.)

 _Fucking is fine,_  Dean thinks, _but holding your hand while we do it,_ _**that's**_   _the blasphemous part._

“Is it...not good? I can do something different.”

Cas looks at him the way he used to, in the old days, when Dean would make some offhand, pop culture joke. He could always see the moment when Cas tried and failed to parse something. Usually he’d move on with an air of _We’ve got too much shit to do for me to care about your fucking references, Dean_ , but sometimes, like now, Cas just looks at him like _I really wish I understood that._

“Of course it is,” Cas says eventually. “You’re very good at this.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Dean says with a wink. Then, another realization hits him. Maybe it’s not panic. Maybe it’s _nerves._  That’d make sense, actually, and Dean kicks himself.

It’s hard, sometimes, when he looks at Cas and sees someone like himself--a man with a face that's grown unused to smiling, tempered like steel, more than a little tired--to remember that Cas’ stint with humanity has only been a few years long. Eventful years, sure, but still. Cas never _had occasion_ to understand that sometimes, being embodied isn’t awful. Sometimes it’s pretty awesome. Particularly when it was with someone who you...

“Don’t worry about impressing me,” Dean blurts.

“What?”

“I mean, you’re doing great,” Dean says, sliding his hands around Cas’ waist and drawing him away from the wall. “It’s--uh, it’s great.”

There’s a pause, one Dean can’t interpret, but all Cas says is “Thank you”. He looks touched and also...troubled.

 _Don’t push him, Dean,_  Dean tells himself. _You’ll take what you’re given when you’re given it, and you’ll be grateful for it._  That’s always been his motto when it comes to any form of pleasure, and it’s served him well.

And yet, he can’t stop himself from taking Cas’ hand and kissing each knuckle in turn, or from pressing Cas’ palm against the spot where the fabric of his underwear is straining to contain him. Anything to get Cas to touch him. Anything. “You do, you know,” he says, right into Cas’ ear.

It takes Cas a moment to respond, like his words have to move through a thick haze. “Do what?” Dean watches the way his Adam’s apple jumps, feels Cas’ fingers slowly closing around him.

“Impress me. You’re real goddamn impressive.”

“I...I’m glad you think so.”

He doesn’t say _move your fucking hand for Christ’s sake, I’m dying here._ He says: “I’ve always thought so.”

He feels the ghost of a touch on the small of his back and scarcely dares to breathe. Cas’ fingertips brush the edge of his waistband and stop. They stay there.

 _Don’t push him, Dean._ And yet. If there’s one thing Dean excels at in life, it’s finding new ways of pushing Castiel.

“I wanna kiss you again.”

Cas squints. “What’s stopping you?”

Dean leans in a hairsbreadth closer. “You.”

Cas’ eyes slide away and back again, confused. “No, I’m not.”

Another centimeter closer. “No? Tell me to kiss you.”

Shock, or something like it, makes Cas simultaneously tighten his hold on Dean’s erection and dig his fingers into Dean’s back. The change in pressure is barely perceptible but Dean feels like he’s laid his head in the mouth of some great beast. He pulls air through his teeth.

“What?”

Dean looks at Cas’ mouth. “I want to kiss you. Bad. But I…” _I need some proof here that this isn’t one way._ He knows his eyes give away his desperation, and he doesn’t care.

They stand like that for what seems like a very long time. Dean can feel the hour getting later. The hand on Dean’s back presses in a little more, and Cas moves the thumb of his other hand a fraction of an inch, the only movement in the whole world.

“Kiss me,” he says, finally.

Dean's stomach clenches, and he closes the gap between them. He swore he was going to be good, the first time he kissed Cas, still tasting faintly of salt and hot sun, still with remnants of the desert clinging to his coat and hair. He swore it again the first time he got Cas in his room when they got back. He tries to swear it again now, but he’s weak, with Cas’ hands finally on him. Cas let go at some point, but is now dragging the heel of his palm lightly along the line of Dean’s dick, apparently without noticing. Dean struggles to think for a moment.

“Let me do something for you,” Dean says, when he breaks the kiss.

“What?” Cas asks again, though whether he’s asking what Dean intends to do, or if he’s just having trouble understanding what Dean’s saying, who knows. Dean’s already at the bed, already grabbing Cas’ coat, already folding it up and laying it on the floor. He’s already kneeling on it in the time it takes Cas to blink and ask “What?” a third time.

“Like I said,” Dean grins, with a hint of his old swagger. “The main event.”

It’s not until Dean’s got Cas’ pants and boxers around Cas’ thighs that he seems to register where this is going. “Uh.”

Dean never gets this, never gets to do this. It’s always Cas giving way, Cas taking him. (Easier _,_  Cas said, and it’s true, it is. So easy, Dean was incredulous at first. Cas has a level of control over his body that Dean never fully appreciated until now.) Dean’s more familiar with the way the hair curls damply on the back of Cas’ neck, the way the muscles in his shoulders move, than he is with his own hand at this point. And he’s happy to play pitcher in the god-awful pitch-versus-catch metaphor. He is. But sometimes a guy needs to try a different position. So to speak. Maybe one that lets him finally get a good look at the cock he’s been thinking about for literal years. One that means he gets to make Cas come, rather than Cas finishing himself off. (He’s not jealous of his own mattress, he’s really not.)

More importantly, one that lets him look Cas in the eye for once.

“Don’t worry,” Dean says, doing just that. “I’m pretty damn good, I promise. I’ve gotten dozens of testimonials.”

That’s Cas’ hand in his hair, and the feeling is so unexpected it makes him stop. “But--why?”

 _Why_? Of all the things Cas might’ve said, he picked the one that made Dean’s heart lurch. Dean blinks up at him. _He doesn’t get it_ , Dean realizes, looking down for a moment to gather this thoughts, and finding the edges of them too sharp to handle. _Well, why would he?_ He takes a deep breath.

“You trust me?”

“Of course.”

 _God knows why,_  Dean thinks. He nods anyway. “Good. You don’t get it now. But, uh, trust me, you will. Okay?” The situation is ridiculous, he realizes, so this will have to do for a confession.

He sees Cas swallow. “Okay.”

“Okay, good.” He smiles, not at all brash now. “Put your hand back.” Cas does. Dean feels something behind his breastbone begin to trickle away, the first signs of thaw in ice he didn’t even realize was there. “Now,” he says, as he wets his lips with his tongue. “Just watch.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've now written every one of these while ill, so that's...something. 
> 
> I really did want to stick to Mary's POV the whole way through, because it's interesting to me. But I apparently have an obsession for blow-jobs-and-feelings and her POV doesn't exactly work for that.


End file.
